


somewhere soon

by disstrack



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bang Chan-centric, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Post Military Enlistment, Post-Canon, Reunions, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26773009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disstrack/pseuds/disstrack
Summary: A lot can happen in two years.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Hwang Hyunjin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 83





	somewhere soon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucore/gifts).
  * Inspired by [over radio waves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23140627) by [disstrack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disstrack/pseuds/disstrack). 



> i'll be honest, i've stopped updating and replying to my fics for the months because i've drifted from kpop as a whole and i think the recent drama with regarding to a certain ex-member has only made me distance myself further. i'm also currently very happy where i'm at right now (camping in the haikyuu fandom with admittedly much better quality of writing seeing as i've changed a lot since then) but i got a request from luli that i could just not turn away from, so here we are. thank you so much, luli, for both the support with my writing as well as for giving me a reason to temporarily return to my love for stray kids. a lot of how the story plays out is very much inspired by a previous fic i've written, over radio waves.

“I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world.”   
—Having a Coke with You by Frank O’Hara

* * *

Much to everyone’s surprise, Chan storms out. 

Admittedly, the one most surprised about it is Chan himself. He’s the leader, the oldest, the one who has always been the most level-headed of the group because he had to be, because  _ who else _ would be, so this behavior isn’t expected of him. But Chan is also infuriatingly human and now infuriatingly angry and frustrated and  _ helpless _ , because all the feelings he had expected to feel shortly after his return from military service, it certainly hadn’t been these. Of all the things he thought he would hear when he returned to his group, it certainly hadn’t been those. 

No one chases after him after he leaves the company building because this has happened before — it’s always been a standard thing to happen back when they were younger, more high-strung boys: implode, walk out, recollect, return — but Chan’s phone is still back in the building and enough time has passed for him to be too far for them to look and find him without any preamble or clue. You could implode, walk out, and recollect yourself, but there would be no point in returning if there would be nothing to come back to, and that’s why they’d always send someone after the member who would go. It had been a policy Chan had instilled, actually, and one they practiced without fail. How ironic it is that the very person who insisted on it is the one person who doesn’t get it. 

But all those things are far from Chan’s mind, because the surge of feelings are impossibly overwhelming. He knows his emotions, but they’ve never ruled over him, have never been anything but inspiration for music or a tool to emphasize with others. Not once has he ever felt things just for him, because it’s never been about him. Not until now. 

Hyunjin finds him sitting outside the corner store, staring intently down at a burnt out cigarette bud in between his shoes. At first, Hyunjin says nothing, nor does he stand beside him; instead, he takes one glance at Chan, walks into the store, and emerges a few minutes later with a plastic bag hanging by his arm. 

The first thing he says is, “Is this the part where I say ‘welcome back’?”

“Haha.” Chan replies dryly, accepting the can of soda Hyunjin takes out along with his phone. Chan tucks the device in his pocket. The metal of the can is cool under his touch and the drops of water stick to his fingertips, but despite how the cold weather doesn’t make the sensation as good as it would be as compared to holding it under hot weather, Chan finds it comforting nonetheless. 

“Remember when we used to buy water bottles from the store just to dunk it over our heads?” Hyunjin asks as Chan drinks from the can. The moment the liquid slips into his mouth, he finds himself chugging the soda almost desperately, more parched than he thought. He doesn’t like the taste; it’s not the flavor he usually buys, but he supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised that Hyunjin doesn’t remember what he likes. It  _ has  _ been two years, after all. “Back in summer though. Not anytime else.”

Chan remembers those only faintly. What he recalls, more than anything, is the sight of the afternoon sun, Jisung drenching himself before shaking his head in slow and dramatic motion, mimicking the advertisements they’d see models too, and Seungmin squirting the water bottle in Changbin’s face when Changbin would make an unfunny joke. And even then, Chan isn’t sure if these memories are as accurate as they feel or just something his mind has conjured up because it seems the most likely. It feels eerily like his time in military service, returning to his memories so often that he wondered if they were shifting, bit by bit, to the point where they weren’t even what they originally were just because he couldn’t let them go and continued to corrupt them. But back then, it was becoming less about whether or not something was real and more like something that could be steady enough for him to hold onto. 

Chan closes his eyes, giving himself a few more seconds to let the wave of emotions settle down. When he speaks, his tone is light, like all the negative emotions have washed over him. “What’s with the trip down memory lane? I’m not that old.”

“Could’ve fooled me, hyung.” Hyunjin mocks, and Chan nudges him harshly for that even though he isn’t really offended. “I don’t know. We haven’t seen you in two years and we already pissed you off.”

“It’s not because of you.” Chan sighs, but for some reason, he finds himself unable to continue. He tries searching for the words, but Hyunjin doesn’t seem patient enough to wait for them. 

“It’s okay, Chan-hyung.” Hyunjin says, and Chan feels a sense of dissonance when his automatic thought to the younger’s words are _ , since when were you so rushed about things? _ There’s a tattoo that creeps up from the collar of Hyunjin’s hoodie too, close to his shoulder. It makes Chan frown. When Changbin got a tattoo to celebrate the group’s fourth anniversary, Hyunjin went to Chan and said,  _ don’t tell Changbin-hyung, but I find them dirty. It doesn’t seem worth the pain too.  _ Despite how they’re right beside one another, Chan is suddenly aware of the distance between them. “Do you want to go back?”

Chan shakes his head. “No.” 

He thinks Hyunjin will leave, because he’s hinting clearly enough that he doesn’t want to go back since he wants to continue ruminating, but instead, Hyunjin says, “Me neither. Do you want to go somewhere?”

“All the shops are closed.”

“Except for the best ones.” Hyunjin supplies, and the look he gives Chan is knowing. “You still remember those places, hyung? The ones we used to go back when we were trainees. I know a good one. C’mon.”

He stands up and turns to Chan unexpectedly. From the corner of his eye, Chan catches a twitch of movement from Hyunjin’s hands, which have been shoved into the hoodie’s pockets, like he wants to take them out and offer Chan a hand. Hyunjin has always been a touchy person, taking advantage of every opportunity present to cling onto someone, but right now, his hands remain still and safe from the cold; it’s too easy for Chan to mistake it as his imagination, a projection of something he won’t acknowledge just yet. Distance. Chan is staring at the familiar face of a stranger. 

“Okay.” Chan says, because it feels like there are things he needs to relearn. 

* * *

Two years isn’t actually as long as it seems like it is, but the streets that Chan thought he knew like the back of his mind now have different storefronts to them, smoother pavements, and dimmer streetlights, so he grows unsure of his own assumptions and comfort. 

They end up in a chicken and beer restaurant in a corner that Chan remembers used to be an electronics’ shop. The couch areas smell like soju and the wooden tables are chipped, but they occupy one of the booths at the far end without much complaint. There are picture frames hung around the beige walls, featuring different kinds of people. The employees are mostly teenagers or young adults and seem familiar with Hyunjin. Like this, late in the evening with this sort of atmosphere hanging over them, Chan thinks the last thing he has to worry about is getting caught by fans. They’re old anyway. The limelight is no longer constantly focused on them any longer. 

As if noticing where his thoughts are leading him, Hyunjin immediately gets to ordering the food. 

The chicken is good. The beer, a lot better. More or less finished with his meal because he’d been surprisingly famised the same way he’d been ridiculously parched earlier, Chan’s eyes wander towards the pictures that are haphazardly scattered to make up for all the space. Looking closely, he realizes that the people inside are the customers themselves, nothing grand like a celebrity or artistic like a stranger posed nicely. He hasn’t been to this kind of place in a while, personal in the most public of ways, cozy yet strange all the same, like intruding in someone’s home. 

“Do regulars go on the wall?” Chan asks Hyunjin, referring to the photos. 

“Yeah. It’s kind of their bestseller thing here.” Hyunjin explains. “It’s the mindset they’re going for. If you feel at home, then why not come back?”

Simple marketing, but effective nonetheless. Chan guesses. “Are you in any of those?” 

Hyunjin smiles wryly before pointing behind him. Chan looks up to the wall right behind him where there are three pictures framed. When he squints, he can make out Hyunjin’s lanky figure there, surrounded by different people each time. In one picture, it’s just him with the waiters; in another, he’s with an unfamiliar man Chan thinks he’s seen in the company building every so often, meaning that must be his manager. The third is with a group of people Chan thinks are his friends. 

In all the photographs, Hyunjin is smiling. There’s nothing unique about the smile in itself; just a quirk of the lips and the crinkles in his eyes. It’s a beam Chan has seen often, has internally marked to himself that it was one of the most handsome things about Hyunjin — and it still is, to this day — but it doesn’t feel familiar, like he’s staring at a Hyunjin he doesn’t know, or a Hyunjin he  _ should  _ have known. 

Yet again, the sense of displacement hits Chan. He pushes it away, and it takes some effort to tear his eyes away to look at Hyunjin. “When’d you discover this place?” 

“Summer of last year?” Hyunjin says, sounding unsure himself but not that bothered by the notion. “I needed a cheat day and my manager recommended this place. The rest don’t know about it.”

It explains why none of them are there in the pictures, at least. “Why?”

Hyunjin shrugs. “Some things I just want to myself, you know?”

It’s not something Chan knows, actually, and it’s more like a surreal concept given that they’ve spent so much time making it about all of them rather than just one. Chan wonders if that sort of mindset will change when Hyunjin finally enlists, when he finally understands that being independent also means being alone. 

"Is that why you brought me here?" Chan demands. "Your way of trying to convince me that this is for the best?”

He doesn’t need to provide context for Hyunjin to know what this is about. “I’m not saying that.”

“Aren’t you?” Chan challenges, and he can feel himself getting worked up all over again even though he thought he got over it. It irks him, when it feels like none of them truly know what they’re asking for, the feeling of frustration at their ungratefulness that he hasn’t felt since their trainee days when they’d be horsing around even though he needed them to take it seriously. It had been one of those memories he didn’t look back on with fondness, because he never liked expressing negativity around the members, but something he’d let himself recall just to remind himself that there was a reason he was the leader among them, more than being the founding member and more than being the longest trainee there was in their generation. 

“Hyung,” Hyunjin says slowly, like he’s speaking to a cornered animal. And maybe  _ that’s  _ what does it for Chan: the way he sounds much older, more level-headed, and more in-command when it’s always been  _ Chan’s  _ role. “You need to calm down.”

“Right.” Chan replies flatly, and he’s sliding out of the booth already.  _ I don’t remember you being such a smartass. _ Chan wants to tell him.  _ I don’t remember you being so confident about everything.  _

But he stops himself. Instead, he lets the shop’s interior sink in for the briefest of moments, the homey atmosphere it strives to capture, and wonders if this place understands the Hyunjin now better than Chan ever could, because this might just be the root of his frustration. 

He shakes his head and doesn’t spare Hyunjin a second glance. “I’ll see you, Hyunjin.” 

When he walks out, he can feel Hyunjin’s gaze trail after him. It’s somehow louder than any last words he didn’t say. 

* * *

Stray Kids had one comeback a few months after Chan’s departure to the military before going on a brief hiatus. Even though they’d been going steady under Minho’s leadership and Changbin and Jisung had grown confident enough in their composing that they didn’t need Chan to supervise or do last minute clean-ups, the news had declared that JYP and the group decided as a whole that it would be better to wait for Chan to return before resuming with group promotions. 

They’d done separate gigs or small collaboration projects in the meantime, still keeping the Stray Kids name alive but on a smaller scale. Seungmin and Jeongin got roped into variety. Minho did some instructor work and became a judge in a survival show for his dancing skills ever since he won Hit The Stage. Jisung and Changbin banded together as a duo that still did music, because of all the members of the group, it would be 3RACHA — Chan, Changbin, and Jisung — who could never truly wander anywhere else but to music. Felix went back and forth to Australia for acting ventures. 

Hyunjin entered the modelling industry. 

Chan had made a few friends in the military — casual at best, the kind you could joke around with and do menial tasks with for two years but not past that because there was nothing else in common — and people knew him for his idol status, but what always came up was Hyunjin. 

(Hyunjin and the rest were active, Chan wasn’t; it made sense that people cared about what happened in the moment rather than anything else, but it didn’t change the fact that the realization sent a damper of fear to Chan’s mind, a reminder that it was too easy to fade into obscurity the moment you stepped out of the limelight even when you planned to return.) 

_ My girlfriend bought some new skincare products just ‘cause she was that charmed by his face.  _ One of them had told him.  _ My aunt saw him on TV adveritsin’ instant ramen and she said she wished her daughter— my cousin — would get a guy as handsome as him.  _ Another said.  _ Ain’tcha in the same group as that Hyunjin guy? He’s all my brother talks about when he sends me messages, says that he hates how this  _ Hyunjin  _ has been hanging around this pretty actress he’s got a crush on. They’re rumored to be dating and that little brat hates it. I kind of miss being their age. _

There, Chan had felt much older and much lonelier than he thought he was supposed to be. He didn’t have fond stories to share about his family when it seemed too personal for casual conversations, and talking about his experiences as an idol, no matter how mundane they may be, would make him seem arrogant. Even though here was a place where he was supposed to feel more at home surrounded by people who were his age and by people who he wasn’t responsible over for the first time in his life, he’d never felt more out of his element. 

When asked, the only reason Chan had been able to keep tabs on Hyunjin was because he was the one most talked about among the rest of the members. Modelling gigs like having his face plastered on billboards, posters, transportation. Standees and commercials. Walking down runways in fashionable attire and standing in cramped rooms for photoshoots to make it to the front page of magazines. Chan felt like he was growing older, but it seemed like Hyunjin was only growing younger. He thought opportunities dwindled in the face of new and fresh faces of talent and potential, but they only increased for Hyunjin.  _ A pretty face can get you far, _ he remembers Hyunjin once telling him, but those were words he’d borrowed from one their dance instructors back when their trainees, and Hyunjin’s tone, when he told Chan, had been filled with nothing but resentment. 

The moment he stepped out of the stations, finally back and Seoul and finished with his service, the first thing he saw was Hyunjin’s face on a bus that was passing by on the busy roads, and Chan wondered if Hyunjin would still say those words he told him before with the same amount of venom. 

Four days after Chan’s outburst, Bambam tells him, “It’s because you left too early.”

Chan glances up at him. In the early morning of the day, they made time for each other — not that there’s much for Chan to do when he just got back; management wants them to take things slow, let him readjust to the “real world”, as if he’d been so displaced — just to get coffee. Chan has always gotten black while Bambam would get whatever funky flavors they store they’d be in would offer, but now he settles for something just as simple as his friend. Yet another difference, but this one doesn’t unnerve Chan as much. There aren’t enough excuses to explain why; it’s simply just the fact that Chan is too used to caring ten times more when it comes to his members rather than anyone else.

“It’s too early for this.” Chan tells him. 

Bambam smiles crookedly. They chose a place beside the windows, no longer daunted by the possibility of being seen by passerby and possible fans. They had placed on shades and caps anyway for good measure regardless. Luckily, it’s too early for anyone inside to be in the mood to disturb them. “ _ This  _ is the only reason you wanted to meet up.”

Chan has no defense for that. It’s not like Bambam doesn’t have a point. By all acconts, Chan technically  _ did  _ leave early. He’s twenty-nine now and he enlisted when he was twenty-seven, way earlier than the usual time idols would typically enlist, always wanting to do it at the last minute to make the most of their shelf life as celebrities. Jinyoung hadn’t wanted him to go early, but Chan said it was for the better. The faster he got it over with, the faster he could return and refocus all his efforts onto the group. And back then, he thought it would be a good way for the members to learn how to function together without him. 

He didn’t ever consider that their solution would be to not function at all. 

(There’s a voice in his head that’s young and boyish and accusatory, saying,  _ those were never solutions, never some kind of lesson. They were just excuses to run away.  _

It’s one Chan turns away from because they hadn’t been excuses. They were just a few among the many reasons for his decision, and maybe they were the only kind he’d be willing to divulge and admit to himself up to this day.)

“Frankly, I think you’re putting too much blame onto yourself.” Bambam tells him. “You can’t tell them what to do forever.”

“Of course I can’t.” Chan says. “They aren’t always going to listen.”

“You’re putting too much blame onto them too,” adds Bambam. “Together or apart, people just grow up.”

Chan knows this. People grow up, and people change, and people want different things.  _ I didn’t _ . The words rest on his tongue. But this isn’t about him. “It’s only been two years.”

“A lot can happen in two years.” Bambam says, and Chan wonders when did he get so sagely, so  _ solemn _ . But people truly do grow up, change, and want different things. A flash of silver glistens under the sunlight that slips through the glass window, and Chan stares down at the ring on Bambam’s finger. At Jaebum’s bachelor party three years ago, Bambam had said,  _ I could never see myself in his place.  _ Now, he looks like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

Chan wonders when that time would come from his own members— when Felix will eventually settle down with his girlfriend, when Jeongin will gain the courage to ask one of his co-hosts out, when Hyunjin will see him one day and say that he’s found someone to love. 

Bambam is right when he says a lot can happen in two years. Three mini-albums from a mainstream hip hop duo. Five different variety shows. Two movie shootings. One survival show. Countless photo flashes and advertisements, surfaces showing the same face over and over in different angles doing different things. The never-ending search for the spotlight, but no longer wanting to share it on the same stage. 

(And for Chan: two years of staying stagnant. Eating the same rations of food, going through the same drills, recycling the same conversations. Holding onto the same memories over and over again, like he thought the rest were doing the same too.) 

He wonders if it makes him pitiful. It’s something he thinks about asking Bambam. But again, this isn’t about him. It’s about  _ them _ , and what they wanted all this time for years and years to come. Is it not his responsibility to see it to the end? 

Chan meets Bambam’s gaze. “A lot can happen in a day too.” And if not a day, then a moment. A meteor could come crashing down. A woman could give birth. A light could flicker to life and shine on the center stage. A voice can echo in a quiet, listening room. A dream can die. A promise can be revived. The possibilities are just as endless. 

Instead of responding, Bambam simply lifts his cup. He tilts it slightly, as if he’s considering Chan’s words, before taking a long sip. In his eyes lie no trace of pity, and the reflection Chan sees is not the sight of someone worth wasting that sort of thing on. 

“When you get that look in your eyes,” Bambam begins. “You look like you did when you told me you were going to get your kids to debut.”  _ Your kids _ , a familiar phrase. As if their age differences with the rest were as far apart as they made it out to be. Chan used to complain about all the old man jokes the members would make about him, but it didn’t change the fact that he had to grow up faster than the rest of them. It has never been something he ever resented, because at least one of them had to be the one to do it, after all, and it was a burden that eventually evolved into an honor. “It makes me remember that it’s not so bad, for things to not always change.” 

They once said that being a leader was like an anchor: grounded in reality and forever unmoving, keeping everything else from drifting off. The leader kept everyone steady and set them straight and to the right path. Sometimes that meant moving, other times it meant stopping. Either way, it would always be what was best, because the leader did not exist to lead everyone astray. 

“Maybe.” Chan half-relents, because though his certainty hasn’t wavered, it doesn’t necessarily feel like it’s right. The image of Hyunjin’s tattoo comes to mind. Chan never got a proper look at it, but the glimpse allowed him to see the sharp curve of an anchor, a rope loosely wrapped around the hole. He doesn’t know what it’s hooked to, doesn’t know if the anchor itself has been left behind, because sometimes what keeps you steady is also what drags you down, and maybe, at some point, that’s what Chan became for the rest of them.

* * *

When Chan had met up with management and his members in the company building that night, what he expected was a promise, a declaration, the certainty of a comeback, that they’ll make some kind of prodigal return that would shake the world and aim the spotlight on them once more after a long time of staying hidden. Chan’s future and dreams were bright like this, a rope to grasp as he waited for his days in the military to shrink like he was a trainee all over again, focused on a singular thing with enough drive to make it a reality. 

Instead, what they told him was, “We’re thinking of taking a break.”

There were a number of instances wherein weighted decisions like that were things Chan had to face. Debut, the first full album, first worldwide concert, moving out, military enlistment. The hiatus was a pain Chan did not have to face, and one that might have never had because it wasn’t something he would’ve stood for. When they tell him,  _ we’re thinking of taking a break _ , what comes to Chan’s mind is the thought—  _ is that why they never said anything until I left?  _

The words form in his mouth and slip from his tongue. His voice, despite the turmoil of emotions, comes out even. His members — his family, the kind of people he thought he knew like the back of his mind, from the peculiar way Felix sneezes to Minho’s niche choice for vitamins — simply say, like they’re talking to a stranger they’re afraid of offending, “It was going to happen eventually.”

Over the weekend, Chan returns to the company building. The group and management aren’t scheduled to meet again until Monday, and none of the members besides Hyunjin had made an effort to reach him since their disastrous meeting. The lack of effort doesn’t really hurt Chan, not in the face of his lack of knowledge about them. It’s their way of still giving Chan space, and it’s not like they’ve ignored him entirely; his notifications reminds him of texts from them that he has yet to read because he knows they more or less say the same thing: half-apologies made more out of sympathy than understanding, doing it more out of guilt than agreement. He can’t feel bad when it feels like he taught them to act like this. 

What he  _ can  _ feel bad about is the fact that he’d screwed up along the way, making them grow distant from what was supposed to keep them close together the moment he stepped onto the train and started his two-year service. 

The evening is ungodly, reminiscent of the late nights he’d spend in his studio working. They all stayed up late in their own way, but over time, that sort of practice tapered off when they rose as a group. It was well-deserved; Chan didn’t want them to push themselves when it wasn’t a need anymore and they already established themselves, steady in their placements. His own habits continued only because he was greedy. 

Hyunjin’s habits did too, being the last to linger or spending a few more hours in the dance room to practice. Oftentimes, they’d go home together. It wasn’t something they ever really spoke about, but Chan understood, even without words, that Hyunjin was greedy too. 

The studio is on the fourteenth floor, but he stops at the tenth instead. If asked, even though no one would, he’d say it’s because it’s the only floor that serves cold water from the dispenser and he wants to refill his thermos. 

The real reason is this: the squeak of the footsteps he hears down the hallway, the loud bassline that reverberates through the walls. The door opening, parting way for the sight of Hyunjin, standing in front of the mirror and moving to the beat. Chan is suddenly stricken with the memory of the last time he’s watched a scene like this unfold, the image of Hyunjin turning around as the music would halt, Chan walking up to him, and when they closed the distance, it was like they had never known what it was like to ever be apart. 

It’s different this time. The song ends around half a minute later, Chan watching from the doorway rather than actually entering, and Hyunjin paying him no mind past a fleeting glance. Chan doesn’t return to the memory out of fear that trying to relive it over and over again will morph it into something no longer true, and this might just be one of those things he’d like to keep as true as possible, less because of need and more out of want. 

By the time the song fades off, Chan asks, “Upcoming performance?”

“Exercise.” Hyunjin says, wiping off nonexistent sweat off his face. It’s how Chan knows that Hyunjin hasn’t been here for long. “It’s the instrumental of Changbin-hyung’s song from Project One Spear’s last comeback.”

Chan tries to recall the beat. “Changbin’s style changed.”

“It didn't,” says Hyunijn. “He said this track was inspired by you, actually.”

Chan doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t utter a word. He sits down on the bench pressed against the wall close to the door and watches how Hyunjin slings the small towel around his neck before turning to him. His expression looks kind— and Hyunjin has always been a kind person, but this is more reminiscent of the boy Chan had known from the moment he walked in the studio and introduced himself as the newest trainee that Changbin wanted to be part of the group Chan had been forming for a potential debut all the way to the person Chan has seen two years ago, before his abrupt departure. The thought makes something in Chan swell with fondness and sadness simultaneously. “Sorry for pissing you off last time, hyung. I didn’t want you to walk away.”

“I know you didn’t.” Chan replies, his voice coming out soft. He’s not here because of that anyway. He thinks about how Hyunjin hasn’t actually had a performance in ages, yet here he is, alone in the company building, practicing like they’re still trainees trying to make it big, rookies trying to remember why being big was a venture that was worth it in the first place. “How often do you do this?”

“Not as much as before.” Hyunjin confesses. “I haven’t stepped in here in a long time.”

It’s not obvious. There had been nothing stiff about Hyunjin’s movements, nothing that could tell Chan that this wasn’t something Hyunjin had done in a long time. Hyunjin loved dance so much he could do it with his eyes closed and nail every move perfectly; he could perform in the dark and it wouldn’t matter that no one could see him.  _ I do it for me _ , Hyunjin would say.  _ And for the world to  _ see  _ that I do it for me. _ “What changed?”

Hyunjin shrugs. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing slight muscles that never truly bulked nor faded. He still looks skinny. Chan is tempted to say, out of habit,  _ You should eat more _ , like he doesn’t know how Hyunjin has never been one to hold back, like he doesn’t know how sometimes Hyunjin’s hunger gets insatiable _.  _ “You coming back, I guess.”

Admissions like these will be something Chan will never get used to, not because they don’t come about frequently, but because it’s something he never expects. He can count the number of times people have told him words that had undertones of vulnerability underneath the blatant boldness. And Hyunjin has never cowered in the face of honesty, but it’s rare that he ever says anything with as much weight as this, rarer for him to dismiss it as something fleeting rather than something people would want to catch and not let go. 

Hyunjin walks to his direction and sits down beside him. Even though the bench is large enough to fit five, Hyunjin saddles close enough to Chan for their shoulders to bump. There’s a sheen of sweat on Hyunjin’s nose, and without giving much thought to it, almost like it’s instinctive, Chan grabs the end of the younger’s towel to wipe it off. It makes Hyunjin wrinkle his nose, but Chan ends up smiling and that causes something in Hyunjin’s expression to loosen further. 

When it comes to having company, Chan can find his last memories of leaving and early moments of returning with Hyunjin. Maybe even more so that it always comes back to this— in large dance rooms in front of bare mirrors, inside a thirty-story building that will be more familiar than home itself despite never being as warm. 

And this is what makes Chan remember, even without meaning to, of two years ago: pressing his forehead against Hyunjin’s, creating a tender moment out of what was supposed to be ordinary. Chan has never really been someone ruled by his emotions, but there are sparse moments when he’d act on it. 

It’s why every time he would break away. It’s why every time he would leave. A ship has no use for an anchor that is willing to be weightless, and Chan refuses to let his head get lost in the clouds. 

“Do you miss it?” asks Chan.

Hyunjin stares at him. “You know I do.” he says quietly. 

He’s right. Chan does know; he didn’t even have to ask because he knew the moment he walked in upon hearing the music and seeing Hyunjin’s figure in the center of the room, moving like he was eighteen all over again. Chan can feel the distance between them, a product of time apart and maybe more, but Hyunjin’s eyes are bare and he is honest to the core. It’s one of the things he’s always loved best about Hyunjin, and it’s that realization alone is why Chan averts his eyes, because he is not the same. 

His gaze lands on the black ink marked on Hyunjin’s skin, and he realizes how that takes bravery too. Chan thinks about the last time they were alone together in the dance room two years ago and wonders if that had been the moment he became a coward, if that had been the moment he let go of what he should’ve clasped onto.

“You think you’re the anchor.” Hyunjin says, catching the way Chan stares at his tattoo. “There’s this idea that you have in your head that you’re the anchor, so when you left, it got like, what, cut off or something, and then we wandered off and got lost. But you’re not. You didn’t keep us down, and we didn’t leave you behind.” It’s fascinating, the way Hyunjin’s tone is laced with passion and certainty the more he speaks even though his voice doesn’t raise at all, like he’s not being overwhelmed by his own emotions even though he was always the member who supposedly felt too much. He’s changed so much. Chan hates it as much as he loves it. “You kept us in place, but you led us to others too, and anchors don’t do that.” He’d never been this intuitive before either, but Hyunjin has always had that kind of look in his eyes— thoughtful and bright and  _ knowing _ . “If the group was ever a ship, Chan-hyung, then you were the captain.”

“Then how come I don’t like where we’re going?” Chan asks. “How come I didn’t know?”

“Who says the captain takes charge of the direction? Who says the crew does?” Hyunjin questions, before his eyes show a sliver of wistfulness. “You know, whenever we used to watch those pirate movies Jisungie liked so much, I just kept on thinking that it was the wind who brought the ship to their destination. Or the water. Or the world.” His gaze flickers to Chan. “And I think you always knew what was going to happen, hyung. We all did, even before you left.”

Chan is silent for a few moments. Then, “I didn’t leave. I just ran away.” 

Hyunjin stares at him, waiting for an explanation. Chan doesn’t provide it, because the message is clear enough. Chan ran away because he wasn’t ready. Chan ran away because he was scared. And these weren’t things he could bear to have and face his members, so he took a step and tried to regain himself because he was their leader. By the time he returned, the person he had reverted back to was no longer someone they needed. 

“I’m not either.” Hyunjin admits after a while. “That’s why I did all those stupid modelling gigs. I never liked being just a pretty face, but it was the only way I could cope with the fact that everyone wanted it to end.”

_ We’re thinking of taking a break. _ “Then why didn’t you fight for it?” 

“Because you can’t always go against the current.” Hyunjin answers. “And I don’t think we were meant to. Sometimes it’ll take us to a newer, nicer place we wouldn’t have thought of. That’s how I see it anyway. Now. I think I get it. Just because it doesn’t go the way I want it to doesn’t mean it’s always a bad thing. So I don’t hate it. This— this is just life.” 

It’s not backing down from the fight, Chan realizes. It’s acknowledging that some fights aren’t worth continuing, that there’s more to life to the side you’ve confined yourself to. What a grown-up, mature way to think, to accept what is different rather than to turn away from it, to stay instead of run away just because it’s something unfamiliar. “I don’t remember you becoming so wise, Hyunjin.” 

That cracks a smile out of Hyunjin, like Chan had said something particularly amusing. He leans close to Chan, to the point where their faces are inches apart. When he speaks, his breath fans Chan’s cheeks. “I’d like to think I got it from you.” 

Hyunjin’s eyes hold nothing but honesty and Chan knows that he wants to kiss him. It’s not because of the conversation, not because of the mood, not because of anything else but the sudden, impulsive desire to, and the terrible, difficult way it is to keep it all in. Some things don’t need complicated reasons to happen. If you feel it, if you want it, you take it. If things change, you accept it. A dance performance, a tattoo, a runway, a departure, another boy. This is who Hyunjin is, who he always will be, and it’s one of the things Chan realizes that will never change. 

“Don’t be like me.” Chan tells him. “I ran away. Don’t you hate me for it?”

“That when I kissed you, you walked away right after, and then said two days later that you were enlisting?” Hyunjin says, terribly straightforward, terribly charming nonetheless. “I was furious at first, but two years is a long time. And I ran away too.” 

Did he? Chan ran away to escape the inevitability of loneliness. Hyunjin ran away because it was already creeping up on him. What a pair they make, Chan thinks. People who have contradicted one another and shared things together, people who have changed but remained the same, and it makes Chan think,  _ why us? _

He had asked that, all those years ago, right before Hyunjin leaned in and closed the gap between them.  _ Why me? _ Because he knew what Hyunjin was doing but not why. 

All Hyunjin had said was,  _ why not? _

Nothing that complicated. Nothing that elaborate. But when Chan thinks about it, there couldn’t have been any other answer Hyunjin could have given him. In the face of multi-layered and complex reasons for every decision made, sometimes it’s enough to just do it— to just seize the moment, because anything could happen in a moment. The possibilities are endless. 

“You should stop thinking so much.” Hyunjin says. “Maybe you won’t walk away this time around.”

“I’m sorry.” Chan swallows, recognizing the thinly veiled hurt underneath the supposedly light remark. “And I won’t.”

“Okay.” Hyunjin says, and he rests his forehead against Chan’s. “You know, you never replied.”

Chan closes his eyes and focuses on the warmth Hyunjin radiates. He doesn’t know how this gesture alone is enough for him to feel like all the distance he had felt stretching between them suddenly vanish. “To what?”

“What I said last time.” Hyunjin explains. “Welcome back.”

“You didn’t actually say that.” Chan points out, opening his eyes. Hyunjin smiles, and it’s nothing out of the ordinary; just a quirk of the lips and the crinkles in his eyes. But this time it’s familiar, and Chan no longer feels like he’s staring at a Hyunjin he doesn’t know. “I’m home.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed it. like i said before, i'm way more active in other fandoms and [here is the ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sieges) for those works in case you're interested enough. if you also liked this story, you can visit my [carrd](https://chasm.carrd.co/#softpunks) to see some details on how to support me! there's a chance that i will return to stray kids, but i honestly can't predict when that'll be. for sure, i still have many ideas for them in mind and i do hope to return someday with newly improved writing.


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